


Magical Waffle House

by YellowLipstick



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Asthma, Cussing, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowLipstick/pseuds/YellowLipstick
Summary: Peter Parker finds a magical Waffle House.
Relationships: Lady Deadpool/Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Kudos: 13





	Magical Waffle House

**Author's Note:**

> Song: “Pretty Pimpin” by Kurt Vile

** “I woke up this morning  
Didn't recognize the man in the mirror  
Then I laughed and I said, "Oh silly me, that's just me"  
Then I proceeded to brush some stranger's teeth  
But they were my teeth, and I was weightless  
Just quivering like some leaf come in the window of a restroom**

**  
I couldn't tell you what the hell it was supposed to mean  
But it was a Monday, no a Tuesday, no Wednesday, Thursday, Friday  
Then Saturday came around and I said "Who's this stupid clown blocking the bathroom sink?"**

**  
All he ever wanted was to be someone in life that was just like  
All I want is to just have fun  
Live my life like a son of a gun  
I could be one thousand miles away but still mean what I say”**

**-Kurt Vile, “Pretty Pimpin”**

It never appeared when he thought it would. Hell-it never appeared when he wanted it to. But when he needed it to, really needed it, it would appear. A shining beacon of hope, warmth, and fuckin’ good, pancakes when the going got tough and he needed to fill his empty tank-there it was-the Magical Waffle House.

Sometimes he would open the door to his apartment, his classroom, shit man, once it was the door to the damned Daily Bugle, and there he was-standing in the doorway to the Magical Waffle House, heavenly smells wafting towards him with a pitchy, albeit cheerful, greeting screeched at him from the manically peppy waiter-er-waitress (?)-always staffing the joint…Wanda!Deadpool. 

Peter, well, Spidey, had teamed up with Deadpool countless times by now; their tenuous relationship had evolved into a quick-tongued, comfortable friendship after years of Wade’s ever-present (if not sometimes forced) companionship to Spider-Man while he was slinging around New York doing his heroic duty…well, to be real, just trying to drown the wrecked guilt always at the brink of drowning him. Every person he saved was one drop in the bucket, sloshing closer to washing Uncle Ben and Gwen’s blood off his stupid hands…but that’s for another time. Even Wade hadn’t gotten those stories out of Peter’s lips yet, in any one of their countless rooftop Taco Tuesdays or Fajita-Chimi Fridays.

So…Deadpool. Wade. Wade Winston Wilson. Wanda the…waitress? Peter had seen his friend in drag on many occasions, anytime they were going to a place to eat other than the rooftops of New York or Peter’s sparse apartment (Wade’s was too much of a bio-hazard shit-hole for anyone without a constant regenerative health ability, worthy of the constant cleansing of sepsis and whatever other germs lied in wait on the grime and bodily fluid-coated surfaces to survive…from his own drowning days, when the shit hit the fan and Wade’s favorite gun barrel hit the roof of his own mouth, mercifully gifting him hours of silence from the boxes and his own bull thoughts).

But…every time Peter wandered into this Magical Waffle House, which let’s be real, was seriously making him doubt his own sanity at this point, he was greeted by his friend Deadpool. Only-Deadpool not just in drag, dressed as a classic waitress-dress, apron, hat and all, over his ever-present red and black uniform, with added boobs (?) and a blonde ponytail swinging from the back of his (her?) head (mask?); but Deadpool pitching his voice to a shrill, feminine staccato, with apparently no memory of these occasions or this Magic Waffle House later on.

The first time, Peter was shutting down after an anxiety attack induced asthma episode, trying to get his shit together before trying to fumble his camera together with shaking hands for work; he had managed to gather his courage enough to open his apartment door-comforting himself that at the very least tomorrow was Taco Tuesday and he’d see his one true, weird, but true fucking friend-who actually gave a shit about him, if not too many shits about his firm ass-the next evening, for sure.

Deadpool could always drown out Peter’s vicious internal monologue with his constant chattering and pestering. Peter had come to rely on it; he didn’t know when he started needing the background static that was the Merc with a Mouth to get through his days, his life-maybe after he had finally given Wade his cell number long after revealing his identity and couldn’t seem to manage through a single hour without checking his pocket for a buzzing text from the Merc:

Hey Spidey-Widey…haha, get it? Widey is kind of like WADE but with a Y at the end! FUCK YAH!

_Wade…there’s no I in your name…_

Shit. Well. HEY LOVE MUFFIN! Better?

_Wade. I’m not your love muffin._

Sopapilla? Churro? Pan Dulce? Flan?

_No. Just. No. _

I got it, Baby Boy, I got it…HEY SUGAR TITS!

_…I’m pretty sure the poor guy behind me is reading this over my shoulder (nosy jackass) and thinking WTF mate?! _

So Sugar Tits, you down for-OMGO-DAMN!

_Wade?! Wth?!_

Sorry Baby…lol, I tripped…on YOUR FACE. NO wait!!! DAT ASS, YAH, I TRIPPED ON DAT ASS. 

_I can’t. _

But that first time-he had opened his apartment door and found himself standing on the chipped, dirty tile of a Waffle House. The fuck? He had blinked and blinked hard again, shakily sitting down at one of the nearest booths. It was deserted except for him and Waitress!Deadpool behind the counter, screeching at him about pecan waffles.

“Wade?”

“It’s Wanda. And what’s your name, Honeybun?”

Peter couldn’t, he felt near another anxiety attack, he was hallucinating now. Shit. Shit. Shit.

But Wanda had served him up a steaming stack of heavenly, fluffy pancakes, just like Wade made him when he was having a shit Sunday-overwhelmed and stressing about school and work coming at him in under 24 hours-despite him never ordering anything.

He ate the pancakes, mumbled a quick, ‘thanks’ and left the Waffle House, appearing back in his apartment building’s musty hallway once he heard the tiny bell smack against the glass door to the diner-to his apartment?

He hurriedly texted Wade what the hell had just seemingly happened to him-his mental breakdown in the fucking hallway-on the way to work and by the time he had gotten there, Wade had helped him laugh it off, stating he thought maybe White and Yellow, his Boxes, had jumped ship for a bit to harass his Petey-Pie; they *loved* Peter as much as Wade did after all. 

Despite his continued misgivings, and his so-normal-it-wasn’t-even-uncomfortable-anymore pass over Wade’s never-ending mention of his infatuation with the young hero, Peter was able to block out J’s shouting and rancid cigar smoke long enough to upload his latest pics. (of yours truly: everyone’s favorite neighborhood hoodlum, Spider-Man) to the Bugle’s servers for some cash that would hopefully feed him for another couple weeks even buoyed with Wade’s food gifts…and now apparently, Waffle House visits?

The second time, Peter was shivering in one of the metal, graffiti-encrusted bathroom stalls on campus, taking deep breaths and trying to talk himself out of finding a quick blade-anything sharp- to stop the DAMNED ITCHING tingling in his wrists…his natural-not-natural glands that secreted his webbing were burning and aching after he had picked and poked with his blue ink pen during his last lecture at the tiny holes in his flesh-his rampant obsessive compulsive disorder never allowing him to leave well enough alone. He had jagged scars littering his arms from this very obsessive practice over the years, he looked like a cutter, hell he *was* a cutter, but he was trying to stop?

It had taken one uncharacteristically serious look from Wade’s white, masked eyes, so expressive over his hidden features, after seeing Peter’s spandex ride up his wrist once when he had taken his gloves off to eat, and those quiet words, mumbled ‘Don’t you fucking do that to yourself, to me, Pete. You don’t want to look like me and you can’t fucking heal like me, you can’t really heal for shit. And I’ll know. And I’ll find a way to stop you.’ The threat hung in the air between them-hilarious in its seriousness-violence to stop violence.

Peter had laughed it off but it still haunted him sometimes, when his fingers twitched for something cool, shiny, and smooth…so sharp it could turn his skin smooth again, the red could run down his flesh and make him a little less dizzy-a little less anxious.

He coughed and grabbed for his inhaler from his pants pocket, and panicked worse when he couldn’t find it, crashing into the flimsy stall door as he reached into his messenger back looking for it. Where the fuck was it?! Did he leave it in his dirty hoodie pocket from the day before?!

Just as his panic hit a crescendo, feeling the iron bands clamp into his lungs, squeezing the breath right out of him; his nose twitched and he smelled…Wade’s pancakes?

He blinked and straightened up, looking around to find himself in the Magical Waffle House again-Wanda batting her eyes sweetly at him through the mask and cooing scratchily at him in her hoarse voice to find out if her Cinnamon Roll wanted tacos or pancakes? Apparently, that was all she served there, no matter what the menu said or what he could dream up ordering in his hallucinatory episodes. 

He collapsed onto the nearest vinyl bar stool and his hand bumped against the most reassuring sight in the whole world to him at that moment, more so than even Wade…er…Wanda. His blue, plastic inhaler sat neatly by the shiny napkin holder, innocuous as it was his saving breath-quite so. His eyes pricked with tears and the itching in his wrists buzzed to a low quiet in his mind while he picked up his inhaler and shook it to take some needed puffs.

Wanda came back with a huge stack of pancakes, oozing with ‘fresh maple syrup like the real Canadians eat’, ‘to match your eyes, Sweetie Petey’ and proceeded to chatter at him comfortingly about classic literature and the existence of mermaids while he dug in without asking questions-content to at least have some respite from his life, even if this wasn’t real and he desperately needed a fucking therapist apparently.

Wade thought Peter’s Magical Waffle House visits were fucking hilarious-pestering him about them and whining for his friend to take him sometime. But Peter didn’t really know the rules yet, he knew it would happen when he needed it, not just because he wanted some pancakes. He had no clue why ‘Wanda’ was his apparent Spirit Guide through the lunacy that was his clearly underappreciated subconscious. He was always alone there and it was always unexpected…he couldn’t just take Wade into one.

But as the months passed and Peter had visited his Magical Waffle House more than he could keep track of…maybe he should start journaling this bullshit (?)...he stopped caring so much about his mental capacities-elsewise he seemed normal, well, normal for him. He liked Wanda and he liked his Waffle House. He was glad the haven had chosen him in his times of need, no matter how fucked up it made him. And really? He was a Spider-Man…a man with arachnid genes…one in a million…one in billions…and his best friend, his only friend really, was a deadly, insane mercenary who couldn’t even take his gloves off in front of Peter after all these years because of his fucked up skin and ‘reasons’. He sold pictures of his alter-ego for grocery and rent money. He took care of his one living relative, his Aunt May, and had panic attacks when he analyzed any of his life choices or Aunt May’s mortality or his own damned mortality too hard. So he had a Magical Waffle House-so what?

And if he had started pretending Wanda was cuddling him, smelling comfortingly of Wade’s pancakes, when his eyes were shut tight in the middle of the night to calm his breathing down-well that was no one’s business but his own.

He really needed to cut back on his emotional dependence on Wade-and Wanda-he thought, clutching his phone tightly to his chest like a security blanket as it buzzed and lit up in the darkness reassuringly:

_I can’t sleep Cuddle Bun…You awake again? Last night you were awake this time. Can I come over? _

_I’ll just come over bc let’s be real I know you’re awake :-)*_

Peter rolled over and switched his lamp on, opening his window to the chilled air as wide as it would go, and shuffled into a threadbare, soft, flannel robe, waiting for Wade. Fuck it. If he was going to make bad life choices, he might as well be happy while he burned. He fidgeted with a nearby blue ink pen, chewing the cap in his teeth and licking over the shallow indents he made, until his Merc-*his* (?) Merc (?!) (?!) (?!)-crashed through the windowsill and onto the small, padded cushion Peter had added to the floor under his window for that very reason, trailing flaked and peeling paint chips in his wake from the abused entrance.

Peter eventually fell back asleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, right when the leaden clouds thinned enough to see some pink and orange between the worn building edges, head resting on Wade’s uniformed shoulder, while the Merc chattered happily to the still apartment as the old TV played black-and-white I Love Lucy reruns (because Golden Girls was reserved for special occasions and Thursdays).

When he woke up, Wade was gone, but apparently Peter’s senses had been more distraught then he had realized the night before; because he woke up to the smell of butter and syrup, with warm, fluffy pancakes sitting on a plate in front of him where his face rested against the cool countertop of the Waffle House. He shut his mouth and grimaced when he felt drool, un-sticking his cheek from the smooth surface, and blearily squinting at Wanda as she giggled roughly and scratched out a ‘Good morning Sunshine, how’s my Lemon Meringue doing today?’

Peter mumbled a sticky, ‘M kay’ before grabbing for the sweating glass of water to wash the morning breath feel away from his mouth.

He reached down to grab the water-spotted fork, the back of his neck and scarred wrists prickling suddenly when he noticed Wanda’s face looming in his personal space. She smelled just like Wade-gunpowder and that sweet, decaying smell rotten apples got in the orchard right when the birds would go for them-and her masked face was very near to his, ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day, Candy Cane Bae,’ she rasped, right before pushing her masked lips snuggly against his cheek, nuzzling only for a moment-maybe he imagined the slight, snuffling pressure on his scratchy jaw-and pulling back with a small, pitched noise-like an animal would make in pain.

‘Breaking the rules, can’t break the rules,’ she muttered to herself (did she have boxes like Wade?) gruffly before scurrying back into the kitchen area where Peter had never seen. 

He blinked and looked around, hearing a tinkling bell sound, before finding himself sitting on his couch alone, apartment cold and empty from Wade apparently forgetting to close the window behind himself again. The stained blanket the Merc had probably tossed over him at some point was crumpled on the floor at his feet and the sun was up and shining. Well that was…new?


End file.
